Better Than Drinking Alone
by SamiCausti
Summary: Mick barely ever gets drunk, but when he does, there's a reason. Short one-shot. Blatant Mick/Gina shipping.


The apartment sounded too quiet behind the door as Gina slid the key into the lock. No movement, no music, no TV. Also no smoke alarms, which was a plus; the last times she'd been gone too long Mick had tried making steak and had gotten the entire apartment complex evacuated and the fire department called. She'd gotten back to find half the neighbours in various stages of annoyance bordering on rage, the apartment full of bootprints from the firefighters – who'd apparently had to check for fire even after Mick told him he'd put the smoking pan in the sink and run water over it before leaving with everyone else – and Mick fuming over his ruined dinner. She could only hope the silence meant he was doing something constructive, like sleeping or cleaning his rifle or studying case files or…something.

She was supposed to have been home three days ago, as soon as her aunt's funeral had ended. She'd gotten the call after Mick and Coop had already left for a consult in Georgia. She'd shot him a text that she was leaving for a few days for a funeral. He'd offered to come back and go with her, but she'd told him not to be an idiot, that she could handle a funeral on her own, and to do his damn job. She should've been home before him, but there had been a freak storm and the flights had been grounded for days. Mick and Cooper's consult had wrapped up quicker than they'd expected, and he'd been home for four days already. They'd talked on the phone a few times. He'd told her to be careful. She'd told him not to go clubbing without her. He'd promised to behave.

Then she'd been stuck in traffic getting back from the airport. She was exhausted and ready to collapse. Mick's car was still in the parking lot, so he had to be home unless someone had picked him up.

She dropped her bags beside the door, locked the deadbolt behind her out of habit, and called his name as she slid her Glock out of the holster on her hip. It wasn't that she didn't think Mick could take care of himself, but caution was something that her life had drilled into her. Even a man as competent as Mick could be overpowered or surprised. And she knew the statistics on people being attacked in their homes.

The place looked deserted. None of the lights were on. None of the blinds were open. She flipped on the kitchen light and glanced around. Things looked normal. The room was empty. The sound of clinking glass caught her attention, though, and she moved into the dining room, gun still extended cautiously.

Mick was at the dining room table, a shot glass in one hand and some seven bottles lined up in a neat row in front of him. She put the gun away and let out a soft sigh of relief.

"Dammit, Mick, you scared the hell out of me. What's this?" She crossed to his side in two steps and silently counted the bottles. Five empty, one full, one half gone. "What, you miss me that much?" she asked dryly, and then shook her head and gently pried the shot glass out of his hand. He stared up at her, dark eyes a bit pathetically pleading, though she didn't know what exactly he wanted. He looked like he hadn't done a thing to take care of himself. He was still in PJ pants, with no shirt, a little scruffier than usual, his hair more rumpled than she'd seen it in a while.

"Jus' drinkin', love," he slurred. Gina hadn't seen Mick drunk in a long time. He had a ridiculously high tolerance for alcohol and he knew when to stop even when he _was _drinking too much. She'd seen him a bit buzzed from time to time, but in general he was the one who stayed almost sober when the rest of them needed driven home. She slid the bottles and the glass out of his reach and pulled a chair beside his.

"What's wrong?" He stared at her for a while longer. He looked exhausted, the lines on his face a little more pronounced, circles under his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. She slid an arm around his waist. "Come on. You never get drunk. What's going on?" He nodded like she'd said something really clever and then closed his eyes and dropped his head against her shoulder.

"Bee'nine bloody years." His voice was muffled. There was a warm spot on her shoulder where his breath went through her shirt. She ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair, trying to sort of smooth down the mess.

"Nine years?" He nodded as well as he could. "Since what, Mick?" He didn't answer, but his arms crept around her waist and held tighter than usual. She rested her cheek against the top of his head and traced an old scar over the top of his hip with one finger.

"Wasn' on time." Nine years. Before she'd met him, then. There was a lot in his past that she didn't know, though. A lot of bad jobs, she knew for sure. Whatever he and Coop had been doing all that time, he hadn't told her much at all, and she tended not to ask. He didn't like to talk about it, and she didn't bring it up unless he seemed to need it. It didn't matter unless he needed it to.

"Back when you and Coop were doing…whatever you were doing?" He didn't answer for a while. He took one deep breath; his entire torso lifted for a moment and then collapsed again as he let it out.

"Came too late. Couldn't…damn han'gun…" She didn't know what to say to that. She tried to remember the stories he _had _told. Handguns – she knew he hated handguns. He was a crack shot, but only because he'd forced himself to get as good with a handgun as he was with his rifle. Because – _Dammit. _He'd never told her the date, but he'd told the story. Once. A year ago when she'd found that photo in his rifle case.

_A pretty blonde girl grinning at something just to the side of the camera. Something that Gina was sure must be Mick. She didn't really ask; just held the photo up and gave him the same look she always did when she caught him being an idiot. He was a natural flirt, he was charming, and he'd spent years building up and maintaining a reputation as an incorrigible ladies' man. It was a reputation she wasn't fond of, and one that didn't disappear simply because he'd decided to be faithful to just one permanent relationship. Generally she managed to ignore it or even be amused by it. Sometimes, though he slipped up. This time, though, he didn't look guilty or apologetic or even annoyed. He looked…almost sad. Almost angry. He snatched the photo out of her hand before she could stop him, stroked his thumb across it once, caressingly, and slid it back into the rifle case._

_ "Mick…" He didn't turn around._

_ "It was a long time ago." If she weren't angry and perhaps a bit jealous she would've been worried by the rough sound in his voice. "She was a trainee. We…weren't supposed to be together. Fraternization rules. Same reasons we're not supposed to be together now." She couldn't decide whether to be even angrier that he had a photo of some old fling still in his case or to be relieved that he wasn't cheating. "We went on a holiday – about six of us – and she…" His voice broke off and he was very still for a moment. "She went off on her own. I was late to meet her. Found her in an alley…" Gina let the anger go and stepped up behind him, one hand going tentatively to his shoulder. "The man was killing her," he whispered, still not turning. "I shot at him. Missed three times." She slipped under his arm to hug him from the front. "She died in my arms," he said, voice muffled in her hair. "I should've been there…"_

"Was it Kelly?" Mick stiffened at the name, and then collapsed against her. Gina held on and let him.

"Nine bloody years," he repeated disconsolately. She nodded.

"I know. Things like that don't get better." He shook his head in depressed agreement.

She let him lean against her in silence for a while longer. She didn't know how long. Until her back ached from his weight. "Hell, Mick, I'm sorry I wasn't here." She could probably have kept him from getting drunk at least. When he _did _get drunk enough to be hungover, he made hell out of it all.

"'m okay," he muttered. He wasn't, of course, but he sounded a little less despondent, and he pulled himself up enough to meet her eyes. "I shot the wall again." He looked slightly apologetic and slightly nervous, like a five-year-old afraid he was about to be punished. She couldn't quite keep a half-smile from taking over part of her concerned expression.

"You remember to use a silencer this time?" He looked confused for a moment, eyes sliding away and brow furrowing, and then he looked back up slightly to the left of her eyes and nodded.

"Yeah." She sighed.

"You gotta quit that habit," she reminded him, but she didn't mind too much, as long as he was going to be okay. He nodded compliantly. She leaned forward to brush a quick kiss over his mouth and then stood, hand firm around his wrist. "Come on, hotshot. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable." He let her lead him to the couch – he was still surprisingly steady on his feet, but he staggered a couple of times, tripped over the edge of the carpet, and nearly face-planted into the coffee-table before she sat him down. He pulled his feet up and dropped his head to her lap and then lifted one hand in the air to slide his fingers through her hair, clumsily tugging the bobby-pins out of the messy bun she'd put up that morning before getting on the plane. "Take a nap or something," she told him. "It's okay." He stared at her for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

"Missed you, love," he whispered. She twisted enough to pull her feet up under her and curl up with her head against his side.

"I know. I missed you too."


End file.
